


Trying to Be Normal

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: People are not born with insecurities. Hermione Granger is no different. Throughout her childhood her classmates had teased her, her parents had doubted her. These are the events that made Hermione.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

 

February 1, 1985

 

"Mummy, am I odd because of the name you gave me?"

The docile five-year-old looked up expectantly at her mother as the woman washed dishes. The girl's brown eyes were narrowed in curiosity, her tone mildly accusatory. Her curly hair lay messed and tangled on her shoulders, stubbornly refusing to be brushed by anyone whose name was not Hermione Jean Granger.

A glass shattered within her mother's tightened grasp.

"Honey, whatever makes you think you're odd in the first place?" Celia Granger asked softly, stemming the flow of a small cut she'd incurred. She brushed Hermione aside from beneath her feet, mopping up the beads of blood with a napkin.

"You know why," Hermione replied, her voice low and despondent. "Mum, the other kids in Mrs. Nickerson's class don't like me much."

"And, as I told you, Hermione, give them some time and be kind to them and they'll see you just as your father and I do."

She set the bloodied napkin aside, brushed the glass into the bin, and continued washing. Hermione reached and took the cloth from the countertop, folding it into smaller and smaller squares until it was no bigger than a postage stamp.

"So is it my name?" she persisted, sitting beside the sink, huddled by her mother's feet. "No one else has a name like mine. There are three girls named Jennifer in my class."

"Hermione, it has nothing to do with your name," her mother said breathlessly, scrubbing the crusted casserole dish more roughly. She and her husband had been discussing their daughter in hushed corners, quite unsure what to do with her. They'd been called in to conferences with her school teacher on several occasions, much more than the parents of a normal five-year-old girl. They weren't even normal behavioral issues, making it even more difficult to deal with.

" _The children, quite frankly, are afraid of her_ ," the teacher had said. " _They insist she's bad luck, that she makes bad things happen to the children_."

" _But that can't be true_ ," Celia had insisted. " _She's a real sweetheart; we've never had problems at home. What sorts of 'bad things'_?"

" _Well_ ," Mrs. Nickerson coughed quietly, her hands pressed together. " _Supposedly she caused the monkey bars to ice over, the kickball to pop without going near it, and the stovetop in the toy kitchen to turn hot_."

" _That's absurd, surely you can't believe--_ "

" _Exactly, Ms. Granger, exactly. I can't understand why the children are convinced your daughter is to blame, but I'm concerned about her social development. She's quite sensitive and seems unable to control her emotions without crying_."

Celia tried her best to contain her displeasure. It did not seem to be her daughter's fault the other children were rejecting her. She was a perfectly kind, sweet, well-behaved child at home. It was nasty for the others to single her out like this, to be so cruel, to cut off a perfectly normal, albeit bright, little girl.

" _I'm also concerned about what the isolation this friction between Hermione and the other children is causing. She's very intelligent, a very clever girl, and you do recall we discussed bumping her up a year, as her birthday is so close to the cut off in the first place. But I dare say that would be a hindrance in regards to her social skills. Many children who skip years have problems making friends and relating to the children in their new grade, emotionally and physically. She seems to enjoy being able to answer questions as readily as she does, and if it's the one thing that keeps her motivated to be in school, then I shan't be the one to take it from her_."

Celia sighed heavily, bringing herself back to the moment, looking down at Hermione who was now unfolding the napkin she'd taken. She stood and set it on the counter, stark white against the grey granite, all traces of blood on it gone.

"Look, it's all clean," Hermione said brightly, turning and beaming at her mother who did not smile back, glaring instead at the creased piece of paper.

"Don't waste clean napkins, Hermione! They aren't toys!" Celia snapped, snatching a towel with ferocity and beginning to dry a plate.

The girl furrowed her brow, swiped the napkin again, crumpled it roughly, and stormed out of the room. The slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house. Celia set the plate on the counter, breathing a sigh as she leaned with her hands on the counter. She knew it hadn't been a clean napkin. She knew it had been her bloodied one, suddenly bleached clean as if by magic. This was the problem.

Her husband, Ambrose, had recently suggested a specialist, perhaps a psychologist or another therapist of some sort. But it was not just Hermione's mind she was worried about--it was her own. After her many meetings with Hermione's teacher, she had begun to notice odd occurrences in her daughter's presence as well. It wasn't just Hermione seeing the television change channels with no remote; it wasn't just Hermione seeing squirrels and other woodland creatures eat straight from her palm as if she were Snow White; it wasn't just Hermione seeing her glass of milk change into orange juice, generally forbidden in the house due to the acid and its poor effects on tooth enamel.

Celia breathed deeply, trying to fend off another migraine with mumbled self-assurances. There was a perfectly normal child sitting in the other room, fuming over her mother's lack of acknowledgment of a seemingly impossible act. This was normal five-year-old behavior.

' _She must have swiped a clean napkin without me seeing_ ,' she tried to convince herself, throwing the towel into a drawer, deciding to leave the dishes for later. Celia stepped lightly into the sitting room before turning down the main hallway and stopping in front of Hermione's door. She knocked once, softly, and entered.

Hermione was sniffing quietly, sitting on the edge of her bed with an open book in her hands. Tears were falling onto the pages.

"I didn't mean to snap at you," Celia said in a hushed voice, gliding across the room and sitting beside her daughter. "I wasn't thi--it was an accident."

"You-you think I'm s-strange too," Hermione said, shuddering, her small shoulders heaving. "You think I'm strange just like t-the kids in my c-class--"

"No, no, no," she replied, clutching Hermione's hand with her own, the book falling the floor, pulling her bushy head of hair towards her, resting it on her chest. "No, Hermione, honey, you're my special little girl, my smart, kind, pure-hearted little girl. I would never think of you that way."

Tears continued gushing and Celia felt the pain as if it were her own. It was terrible for her child to be so hurt at such a young age, for her little girl to be rejected. The pain washed anew over her and she could feel herself welling up with sympathy. As the girl's body shook against her, her own tears began to fall and she wished so badly she could make the other children see what they had done, see how they'd hurt her.

The little sobs died down to hiccups, and eventually Hermione had fallen asleep. Celia laid her down in bed, pulling off her shoes, tucking the blankets around her, and shutting off the lights. She shuffled down the hallway into the bathroom where she rummaged around for a bandage for her cut from earlier. When she went to put it on, however, she discovered the wound had vanished entirely


	2. Chapter 2

September 30, 1986

Hermione sat, a quite terrified seven-year-old, in the main office of the school waiting for her mother to arrive. Her tear-stained face was buried in her hands as she tried desperately to remain calm. She hadn't meant to break the rules. She couldn't even tell the principal what had happened because she hardly knew herself. All she could say to him, no matter how ridiculous it sounded, was that after Trevor Beckman had snatched the book from her hands; it had then flown out of his grip and begun beating him over the head. Trevor was now sitting in the nurse's office with a black eye and several vicious paper cuts.

Of course, the man had not believed her story and had sentenced Hermione to a phone call to her mother, who then insisted she come home for the rest of the day. Hermione felt as if she were going to vomit, her throat tight with anguish at this mess she'd gotten herself into. Her fear of disapproval, her fear of punishment, of disappointment, of failure, was swimming inside her, burning in her chest like a hot poker.

Suddenly the office doors opened. Hermione pulled her face out of her hands to see her mother standing in the doors, scowling deeply. She could feel more tears building and then falling, her hands trembling as she folded them in her lap, looking away from her mother's disapproving face. The woman, crackling with anger, swept over to the secretary's desk, bracing herself against it as she leaned into the wiry old woman's face.

"I need to speak to the principal," she said hotly.

"He's a little busy at the moment," the woman said over the top of her bifocals.

"I don't care," said her mother through gritted teeth. "I need to speak to him now."

The secretary, who looked rather like a vulture with her beaked nose and hunched shoulders, pulled her glasses off, and folded her hands on the desk before her.

"No."

With a penetrating glare, Hermione's mother swept viciously from the desk and stormed over to the door with the golden plaque that read " _Principal Behr_ ". She gave one harsh knock before flinging the door open, stomping in, and slamming it behind her. A yelling match ensued, the secretary hovering like the bird she appeared to be outside the door.

"I don't care what she's done! As far as I'm concerned, that boy deserved it!"

"Now, Mrs. Granger--"

"No! Those children are horrid to her. They have been for years. So what if he got a little scratch? She's been coming home in tears for over two years now, and _nobody_ has done _anything_ to punish the kids who have hurt her!"

"We cannot help it if--"

"Like hell you can't!" her mother snapped back in rage. "You could have beleaguered those kids like you have my daughter, scared them with phone calls to their parents for treating her like dirt, for making her an outcast, for making her ask me what's _wrong with her_!"

"Mrs. Granger, you must calm down or I'll have to call the authorities."

"Go ahead!" she spat. "Have me arrested if you must. We're pulling one of your best students out of this _institution_ as soon as the first quarter is finished."

The secretary scurried back to her desk as Celia flung the door open, her hair wild as it slipped from its ponytail, her grey eyes flashing angrily at the old woman. Hermione looked up at her mother as she approached. Had the minutes before not happened, she would have feared a reproach. However, given the events that had transpired, Hermione allowed her mother to pick her up and carry her silently from the room.

Her mother did not speak to her the entire car ride home.

"To your room, please," she said softly when they entered the house, giving Hermione a slight nudge in the back. "Stay in there and think about what you've done. I'll be in later to fetch you for lunch and we can talk then."

Hermione looked to the floor as she stepped off to her room. She should have known she wouldn't have gotten out of the situation without some sort of reprimand. Curling up on her bed, she paged through several books, though she could hardly focus on them under the circumstances. Instead, she looked around, pondering the room. There was a massive bookcase in the corner, filled to breaking with books upon books. The toy box by comparison was quite hollow. The walls were a light pink, her curtains lavender, the floor wooden with a large cream rug in the middle of it. Sliding off her bed, she crossed to the bookcase and opened one of her newer books.

The smiling faces of a princess and a wizard and a friendly dragon looked up at her, as if they were her friends. It was the same with all her books. They could transport her to a world where everyone she met was a familiar old friend. The faces she saw did not cringe in fear or run away. The information she gained from these books felt like a secret only she could know, something she had discovered on her own, something special she could hold onto that the other kids would never be acquainted with. The better she got at reading, the more her teachers seemed pleased with her. They (adults, anyway) were the only people she could ever impress, and it was all because of this secret knowledge, the secret knowledge her good, familiar friends gave to her.

A soft knock came at Hermione's door and her mother entered, balancing two bowls of soup on a tray. She came and sat beside Hermione on the floor, crossing her legs and pulling one bowl of soup toward her, silent. Hermione looked at her mother with a quiet, searching look, trying to get a read for what the woman was thinking. When nothing came to her, she began to eat her own meal in silence.

"Have you thought about what you did?" her mother asked softly, setting her bowl down on the tray half-finished.

Hermione peered down into her bowl of swimming broth and noodles. "Yes," she said quietly. "Mum, I--I didn't do it. He took the book from me, and I was angry, but it wasn't me who hit him with the book. It was hitting him on its...on its own..." Her last words faded as she said them, knowing quite well her mother would not believe her.

Celia was not making eye contact either, gazing down at her lap, her hands clenching into fists. Hermione was surprised to see a tear spring to the edge of her mother's nose.

"Hermione," her mother began. "We're going to move. We're going to send you to a different school. We're going to move you up a year so you can learn more in school. We're also going to send you to a therapist. I've just finished talking to your father about it."

Hermione felt as if her stomach had evaporated. "A therapist?" she repeated slowly, as if tasting each syllable. Her lip curled with the bitterness of the word.  
Her mother nodded. "She'll...she'll help you learn how to deal with the other children in your class so--so you can make friends."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "I don't want to. Only people with problems go to see a therapist. You said I was normal."

"Hermione, you are normal, you are..." Celia reached forward and placed a hand on her daughter's. "But you need a little help. There's nothing wrong with that. It'll be worth it in the long run, I promise."

Hermione was not certain, but could tell her mother was not up for discussing the matter. They finished their soup quietly on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

November 4, 1987

Hermione was silent at dinner that evening, perhaps more sullen than she generally dared to be. She was staring diligently at her vegetables, wishing they would disappear. Usually she would eat them happily, eager to please her parents with her embracement of healthy food and her consistent three glasses of milk a day. Calcium was good for your teeth, she'd tell anyone who looked even remotely interested. Today, however, she was not anywhere close to willing to choke down her steamed broccoli and even more disinclined to pretend she enjoyed it.

  
"I don't want to see my therapist anymore," she muttered under her breath.  
Her parents looked up from their plates. Ambrose appeared rather stern, his brown eyes narrowed beneath his mop of brown hair, while Celia's look was full of apprehension.

"She doesn't listen to me," Hermione continued, fidgeting with her fork. "She doesn't believe me when I tell her things. She thinks I'm fanciful. She's not helping anyway; I still don't have any friends..."

Her parents said nothing, only looking briefly to each other before her father set his fork and knife down.

"Perhaps you aren't trying hard enough," he suggested plainly, avoiding his wife's cool glare. "What about that girl, Shannon Davis; she seems rather nice. Why don't you go and have a chat with her on the playground?"

Hermione looked at him as if he'd just proposed she wear a bright pink tutu to school.

"Dad, that wouldn't work," she said with exasperation. "Shannon is friends with Amber, the girl who made fun of my front teeth. I know they talk about me..."  
He pursed his lips and Hermione looked down at her plate again.

"We'll stop sending you to the therapist on one condition, Hermione," her father began, breathing heavily, looking at his wife as if trying to muster some support. "We've talked to Mrs. Davis recently, and she thinks it would be a splendid idea if you and Shannon had a little get-together, for fun. You behave yourself, and we won't send you back."

Hermione glared at him. "It won't work. She's just going to tease me. I just said, she and Amber--"

Her father slammed his fist on the table. "Hermione Jean, do you want to go to your room?"

"Yes," she spat back, completely honest in her answer.

"Then go!" he sat through gritted teeth. "Your mother and I need to have a talk. Go! Now!"

Maintaining her piercing stare, Hermione pushed her chair from the table and stalked off, ignoring the fact that her broccoli had disappeared though she had not touched it. She slammed her door behind her and threw herself on her bed and let a scream out into her pillow. Hot tears formed behind her eyes though she was determined not to let them fall. Just last week, Heather Brooks had called her a cry-baby and she had spent the past excruciatingly dreary days fighting the urge to burst out crying, to prove she could do it.

She ripped a book out from beneath her pillow, flipping open its pages with great ferocity. Her friends looked up at her, their smiling faces glinting in the dim bedroom light. Her massive library collection had slowly transformed into one consisting of chapter books rather than the stacks of picture books she'd paged through when she was younger. But this one she'd kept, the one with the princess and the wizard and the friendly dragon, smiling up at her.

Hermione slowly calmed until she heard raised voices in the other room. With caution, she slipped to the floor and crept to the door, listening.

"How can you treat her like that?" she heard her mother yell. "When everyone else in her life treats her the same way? How can you be like them?"

"She needs discipline!" he spat back. "She needs direction in her life, Celia!"

"Have you not seen her? She disciplines _herself_ ; she's not breaking any rules! She clings to rules like a lifeline, Ambrose! School, and rules, and regulations are the only place she has confidence!"

"Yeah? Perfectly well behaved, then? What about all those stories? All those talks with the teachers, those things she's done to the other kids?"

"I don't know why the other children make them--"

"Make them up? That's your reasoning, is it? It must be the other children? Not our sweet, perfect little Hermione, no, she wouldn't hurt anyone, would she? We have moved to another city, to another school, to another grade level, and spent a fortune on 'therapy', but she is still the same! _Nothing_ has changed!"

A prickly silence filled the space beyond and Hermione pressed her ear closer to the door. She could hear the dishes clinking softly as they were cleaned up, her mother's light footsteps passing from the dining room to the kitchen, her father's brisk gait following. She heard them whispering, her mother entering the dining room once more, before the volume rose again.

" _What_?" came her father's incredulous voice. "Move again? You think that'll work, do you?"

"Clearly we didn't pick the right neighborhood this time around," Celia snapped. "Besides..." Her voice dropped to normal levels. "There isn't enough room in this house."

A pause, before, "What do you mean? There's plenty of room."

"Not with another baby on the way," Celia said, so quietly Hermione could hardly hear.

"Another--another--?" her father spluttered.

"Yes," her mother said with a small laugh.

And the fight was over, just like that.


	4. Chapter 4

November 12, 1987

Hermione sat awkwardly at one end of her bed, Shannon Davis sitting primly on the other.

"Do you have any toys?" the blonde pig-tailed girl asked, peering around the room.

"Some," Hermione muttered. "In the toy box in the corner, I think, is where I left them."

Shannon stood from the bed and briskly strode over to the carved wooden chest. Inside were the few remaining pieces of an old board game, a doll with no clothes to dress it with, and a busted train engine.

"How come you don't have any good toys?" Shannon asked, picking up the doll by its arm, pinching it between her forefinger and thumb as if it were roadkill.

"I prefer books," Hermione said curtly, daring her to respond. "I ask for books at Christmas and my birthday."

"Oh," she said quietly, turning her gaze to the overflowing bookcase in the opposite corner. "Do you want to play house?" she asked, holding the doll out to her.

"Not really," Hermione replied.

Shannon looked rather put out.

"Well, do you want to...to...play hide and seek?"

"No, not really," she said again, reaching for the book sitting on the end table beside her bed. She flipped it open and began to read, leaving Shannon standing alone in the middle of the room as she entered her own little world, anticipation of the adventures ahead building within her, bringing much more excitement than the idea of such petty pursuits as childhood games.

"My mum brought me here to play with you," Shannon said angrily. "Not to watch you read. I could have done that at school."

Hermione was unwillingly snatched from her world, brought rudely back to the whining girl standing before her.

"I know you don't want to be here, so I don't see why you're pretending. I heard you and Amber talking about me again. My parents made me have you over here."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to pretend I want to be here if you weren't so boring."  
Hermione glared over the top of her book, a look she was slowly perfecting as the months wore on.

"Well I wouldn't want to be friends with a _beaver_ anyway," Shannon continued, turning on her heel and sticking her nose up to the ceiling.

"I'm not a beaver," Hermione snarled, jumping off her bed. "That's an awful thing to say."

Shannon spun and looked at her, hands on her hips, saying her haughtiest voice, "Are you sure? Try looking in the mirror for once, and fix your hair a bit while you're there!"

  
Hermione's teeth clenched. She felt rage building within her, billowing up from the deepest pit of her stomach up through to her heart and the red-hot flush in her cheeks. Fists formed as the two girls glared ferociously at each other.  
Then, quite suddenly, Shannon's front tooth fell out of her mouth. The girl looked down at the floor where the tooth lay, separated cleanly from its little nook in her skull. As she was bending over, yet another tooth fell. Then another...and another...and another...

She began to cry as all the teeth fell from her face, one by one, gathering in a little pile on Hermione's bedroom floor.

"Help!" Shannon screamed, her hands over her mouth. "Help! Mrs. Granger! Help!"

The door burst open as Hermione's mother flew in, looking from Shannon to Hermione and back again before running over to pry the girl's hands from her face.

"Oh my word," she said softly. "My God--Hermione, did you do this?"

The girl shook her head, all anger within her gone, replaced by utter terror.

"I'm going to call your mother, Shannon, hold tight." Celia grabbed a small decorative bowl from Hermione's dresser, dumped out the miscellaneous contents, and collected all the teeth in it. She then ran from the room, dragging Shannon by the hand into the sitting room.

Once alone, Hermione ran to her closet, threw open a suitcase, and began stuffing as many clothes as she could into it. As a final measure, she put her favorite storybook on top of the pile and then slammed it shut, closing the clasps before cautiously opening her bedroom door. Her mother was on the phone with Mrs. Davis. Shannon was sitting, sobbing, on the living room sofa. Hermione crept into the hallway, stepping lightly, headed toward the back door. She opened it slowly, sliding it shut behind her with a cringe as it slammed louder than she would have liked. Looking into the yard, she decided to walk as far as the sycamore tree before deciding where to go next. She laid her suitcase flat upon the grassy earth, sitting on it with her head in her hands, hoping she was hidden well enough behind the tree.

Her endeavor to stop crying for the rest of her life failed that day. She curled up tight and bawled into her arms, certain she was going to be sent to prison, that she was going to be disowned, that her parents would have their new baby to spend time with and raise, instead of her. The weird one, the crazy girl, the bad luck charm--the one who made Shannon Davis's teeth fall out of her head.  
She wasn't sure how long she'd sat out there, but she did not lift her head until the sliding door opened and closed behind her.

"Hermione!" she heard her mother call, frantic. "Hermione, are you out here?"

She tried to contain her crying, but hiccupped inadvertently. Her mother's footsteps approached, and before she knew it, she was sobbing all over again, her mother beside her, holding her tightly.

"Am I in trouble, Mum?" she asked through her wracking sobs. "Am I going to go to jail?"

She was pulled into her mother's lap.

"No, dear, you won't be going to jail...I had to offer Mrs. Davis a year's worth of free dental care before she would calm down, but no, you won't be going to jail any time soon."

"I didn't mean to do it. I don't know what happened. One minute I was angry at her for calling me names, the next all her teeth were falling out of her head." Sobs came afresh as she remembered the scene.

"Do you believe me?" she asked thickly. "You know I didn't do it, right?"  
Her mother's grip loosened, but she made no other response. Hermione moaned with anguish, pushing away.

"Fine, don't believe me!" she snapped, jumping to her feet. "And then when you have this new baby, you'll be happy finally because you'll have a normal baby to take care of instead of _me_!" Hermione yanked with all her might on the handle of her suitcase, but her mother was sitting on one side of it.

"Hermione, this baby is not replacing you," Celia said sternly, gripping her daughter's hand. "She won't be any more or less special than you, I promise..."

"Dad's going to send me back to the therapist," Hermione said bitterly. "He's going to make me go. But I don't want to. She doesn't believe me either. She tries to tell me things that I probably saw instead, but I know that's not what happened. She'll think I probably just knocked out all of Shannon's teeth, but I didn't. They fell out, I swear!"

  
Her mother sighed. "Let's go get a cup of tea, and we'll see if we can't talk your father out of sending you back, alright?"


	5. Chapter 5

July 16, 1988

Hermione could hear her mother crying in the next room. It was the room beside hers in their new house, on the second floor, all done up for the new baby that was supposed to come. It was painted pink like the room in her first house, the crib full of stuffed animals and soft fleece blankets. But the baby did not come home with her mother from the hospital. Her mother had told her that the baby would not be coming home at all. Hermione had managed to catch her father explaining to somebody on the phone that her little sister Helen was born still. She had never seen her father so quiet, so forlorn, so unresponsive.

For several days, Hermione had wondered if it was her fault that little Helen had died. She wondered if, like the disappearance of her vegetables, like Shannon's teeth, like the cleaned napkin, she had somehow been the cause of her sister's death without meaning to do it. She had been quite bitter toward the baby's arrival. It was this kind of strong emotion that led to these sorts of things. But to the death of her baby sister? She was not as sure as she had been all the other times. She was not sure it was her fault, but the idea was there. It grew like a parasite within her mind. She wished she had not dreaded her sister's arrival, wished so badly she hadn't been so bitter and scornful. Perhaps they would have been friends. Perhaps they could have read books together, and she would have had a companion as she ventured into the world her books provided. Perhaps Helen would have lived had she not felt those terrible feelings. Never before had she thought of her coming sibling in this light. The grief and guilt was seeping into her stomach like a painful slime.

The sound of another sob hit Hermione sharply and she wondered vaguely how much her parents had been looking forward to the new baby. She knew her strangeness was a burden on her parents. She knew they were staying up late at night, trying to find the magical answer, the reason behind their suffering, the solution to make it all go away. Hermione had been doing the same thing as she listened to them trying to hide their whispers. The same thoughts had crossed her mind throughout the family's nine-month-long wait, but they reentered her consciousness once more on this miserable night.

Their efforts to 'fix' her remained fruitless, however. As the past school year had drawn to a close, for example, Hermione had found herself in the middle of a playground mishap--one where the four-square court became hot and sticky with tar. The Administration contributed it to the heat, but the kids in her class did not believe it. Baby Helen would have been something different for her parents, a refreshing breeze of normalcy, the chance at a normal daughter. That chance was gone, and Ambrose and Celia Granger were now left with the freak child.

This thought resonated within her, biting at her insides, tearing at her tear ducts until they seeped with salty sadness. The pain of these thoughts coupled with longing to be with her mother forced Hermione to leave her solitude and head quietly towards the baby's room. She peered in through the crack in the door and saw her mother kneeling on the floor, baby blanket clutched in her hands, pressed to her face, mopping her tears with it, stifling her cries with it. As she took a step closer, Hermione accidentally bumped the door and it creaked open. They both jumped.

"Oh, Hermione," her mother sniffed. "It's you..." She lowered the blanket, though she still clung to it as if her life depended on its existence.

Hermione crossed the room and knelt beside her mother, setting a comforting hand on her knee.

"You still have me," she said softly. "I'm still here, Mum..."

Celia leaned against her daughter, an anguished wail escaping her, muffled only slightly as she pressed the blanket harder to her mouth. Hermione hugged her tightly, not knowing what to do or say.

"I can make you proud," she finally whispered. "I can. I'll be perfect this school year, I promise. I won't let anything happen."

Her mother pulled Hermione into her lap, burying her face in the girl's hair, holding her closely and rocking back and forth, as if wishing desperately her only daughter were an infant again...


	6. Chapter 6

September 19, 1990

The death of Helen had brought a strange new life for Hermione. Though there had been many months of grief were Celia had been unable to walk past the baby's room without a shudder of sorrow, time had passed and the family had settled into a comfortable, optimistic routine. Her concerns about the death of Helen and her part in them had buried themselves deep in the back of her mind where they were less painful. Her parents were no longer nagging her about getting along with the other children in her class. They seemed to have accepted her as she was, as their only child, their one source of pride and joy, no matter how much of a loner or a bookworm she was.

As Hermione had promised, she did her best to be 'perfect' in her new school, receiving top marks in all her classes, pleasing the teacher so much that conferences were no longer marred by such dreaded phrases as 'social development' and 'doesn't get along with others.' Hermione found the upsetting random catastrophes would not take place if she was by herself, away from the other children. This was fine with her as she was most content away from them anyway.

And so, that is what the past two years had turned into. Hermione brought report card after report card home, beaming ear to ear at the approval she found in her parents' faces. The kids at her new school had not seen any worth in bothering or teasing her. They were content as long as she answered all the questions raised in class and allowed them to skate by, undetected by the teacher.

However, despite all these wonderful new developments, Hermione still felt as if something was missing. She entered the classroom that morning, early as usual, straightening the contents of her desk before the bell rang. Her teacher, Miss Larsen was writing on the blackboard. She smiled warmly at Hermione upon her entrance, then said nothing else. The other students filed in slowly before the class began promptly at eight o' clock with a resonating ring from the school bell. The day charged ahead as any other day, but for some reason she could not place, Hermione felt vaguely unhappy.

When the bell signaled lunch, Hermione hung back after the stampede of students. She hopped up to Miss Larsen's desk and stood there with her hands folded, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"Can I help you, Hermione?" her teacher asked brightly, rummaging through her daypack for her lunch.

"I just wanted to ask you if you knew of any good books on the Parliament," Hermione offered sweetly. "I was very interested by the lesson today. I wish I'd known to ask for a book on the subject earlier, because I'm sure my parents already got my birthday present."

Miss Larsen looked up with a half-glance.

"Birthday? Is it your birthday soon?"

"Today, Miss Larsen. I'm eleven."

"Oh, wonderful. Happy Birthday!" The woman stood up and herded Hermione out into the hallway. "You had better go get something to eat."

Hermione frowned slightly, though did as asked, compelled as always to follow the order of a teacher. She tried to ignore the fact that her question had gone unanswered and the mysteries of Parliament would have to wait for her next visit to the library. When Hermione arrived home that afternoon, she wondered if her gapping knowledge of British government was the cause of her unease. She sat in the kitchen staring at the small stack of presents on the counter (clearly books), alone in the half hour period between her return from school and her parents' return from work. This silence and solitude helped her realize the source of her restlessness.

It was her eleventh birthday. But nobody cared.

Oh, how little she knew.


	7. Chapter 7

July 24, 1991

Hermione sat lazily on her back porch, nibbling on a piece of watermelon, a pair of empty rinds sitting in a glass bowl beside her. The summer seemed to be dragging onward, slowing more and more as the start of school days approached. Things had been fine, certainly, between her and her parents and the rest of the world. They'd gone camping a couple times, traveled and explored various cities in the surrounding countryside, even gone to the coast for a weekend holiday. But their frequent travels had slowed and Hermione's thirst for knowledge was only barely kept satiated by the dusty books in the library.

She looked up at the hot noon sun, though she dared not stare directly at it. It was a rule, after all. As she savored the last of her fruit, she watched her father cross the lawn with his mower. He waved at her over the drone of its motor. Hermione returned the gesture with a broad smile. When she finished eating, she set the scraps aside, put her chin in her sticky hands, and continued watching her father. The sweet smell of grass filled her nostrils, the smell of the stress-free lifestyle accompanying summer, the smell of being away from other children, the smell of watching her father mow the lawn and seeing his smiling face. Though she was impatient for summer to end, it did bring her a different sense of happiness. This was happiness without the need to impress, versus the happiness brought about by impressing.

Both were valid, Hermione decided, standing when she heard the neighbor's dog announcing the postman's arrival. She headed around the back of the house, through the gate leading to the front, waving at the postal worker as he dropped a stack of letters into the mailbox. Licking her sticky fingers, Hermione walked to retrieve the mail, grabbing the thick stack and turning toward the house. As she did so, however, she noticed an elderly woman walking hurriedly up the street. She looked rather odd, wearing a long emerald cloak in the middle of the summer. The woman's hair was pulled into a fierce bun. Her spectacles were perched at the tip of her nose, her cool blue eyes looking sternly over the brim of them at Hermione.

"Good afternoon," the woman said briskly, stopping at the front gate. "May I ask your name, child?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows and said in her politest voice, "I-I'm not supposed to tell strangers my name, sorry."

The woman cleared her throat. "Well, let me guess it then...Are you Hermione Granger?"

The girl's eyes widened. "Y-yes..." she replied. "How did you know that?"

"I'm here to speak to you and your parents about a very important matter," the woman replied. "If I may?" She gestured at the gate before her.  
Hermione did not move.

"I have a letter for you, here," the woman said, holding out a yellowish envelope.

Her eyebrows raised, Hermione set the other mail aside and took the thick envelope, holding it gingerly in her hands.

Hermione Granger  
The first bedroom on the left  
112 Blanchard Street  
London

There was no stamp. The woman had clasped her hands primly in front of her, gazing down at Hermione. She turned the envelope over and saw a purple wax seal on the back, inscribed with a great letter 'H' and a coat of arms, an eagle, a lion, a badger, and a snake. Hermione's heart began beating fast.

"Open it," the woman encouraged.

Hermione looked up, quite unsure what to do. She'd just taken something from a complete stranger. A complete stranger who had somehow known her name, yes, and an elderly woman who could certainly mean little harm...but this dastardly rule-breaking was putting her on edge. Nevertheless, curiosity was boiling unbearably within her so she broke the seal and opened the envelope.

She pulled out a packet of yellow parchment from within, and began to read the first page, her hands trembling.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizard.)_

Dear Miss Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term starts on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,  
 _Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress_

Hermione stared. This made no sense, but yet it made all the sense in the world. Hermione Granger--a witch. It would explain everything, and yet, it explained nothing because witches could not possibly exist.

"Is this a joke?" Hermione asked defensively. "Did somebody send you to make fun of me?"

"No, child," the woman replied with such tenderness Hermione was compelled to believe her. "I think it's time we explain to your parents about all your antics these past many years, don't you? I dare say I could use a rest."

Hermione looked at the paper again. A sudden clattering behind her brought both their eyes up. Her father was pulling the lawn mower out of the backyard into the front. He looked up briefly before doing a double take.

"Hermione, who are you talking to?" he called across the front yard.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Granger," the woman replied. "If I may have a word. I trust your wife is home, as well?"

"Who are you?" he asked, approaching the two of them.

"Professor Minerva McGonagall," the woman replied, causing Hermione to look back at her letter again to see the woman's signature there. "I really think it best if we discuss indoors."

Her father looked down at Hermione, then to Professor McGonagall, then back again.

"What's that you're holding?" he asked, gesturing at the letter in Hermione's shaking hands.

"Come along now, we mustn't dally," the old woman said brightly before

Hermione could explain, waving her cloaked arms. They opened the gate for her and the three of them entered the home.

"Please, have a seat," Ambrose offered, gesturing towards the sitting room.

"My wife, Celia, is just upstairs, working on her dissertation. I'll call her down."

Hermione, sitting opposite this strange, strange woman, still clung to the letter. She could not believe it was true. All these things that had happened to her in the past were starting to make more sense, but surely the witches and wizards she read about were simply imagined, simply stories?

The sound of her parents walking down the stairs stirred her from her thoughts. Professor McGonagall stood to greet Hermione's mother, shaking the woman's hand before the three adults had a seat.

"I trust you're having a good summer, Hermione?" the old woman asked kindly.

Hermione nodded. She looked nervously at her parents who looked just as disturbed by this woman's appearance as she did.

"Are you from one of those 'schools for the gifted' or something like that?" Ambrose muttered loudly, waving his hand aimlessly as he tried to enunciate his thoughts.

"You could say that," the old woman replied.

"Why are you here? Who are you?" Celia asked suddenly, her hand creeping to her mouth where she began to gnaw her fingernails.

"I am the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School," the woman replied coolly.

"Also, head of Gryffindor House, and professor of Transfiguration."

There was a pause as her parents took that in.

"Hermione has been accepted to our institution," Professor McGonagall replied, pointing at the letter. "Tell me, have you noticed any peculiar happenings whose cause seemed to be Hermione? At any point in her life?"

"All the time!" Hermione blurted out before her parents could respond.

"Strange things have been happening to me for almost as long as I can remember!"

Her parents looked sideways at her, then at each other, then at Professor McGonagall.

"Do...do you know why it's been happening?" Celia asked in a near whisper.

"Why she--why these things happen?"

The woman nodded slowly. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger...your daughter is a witch, and a highly gifted one at that, given the early start of her magical powers."  
Ambrose gave her a deadpan look. "A witch?"

"Yes. These strange happenings you have witnessed, perhaps...frozen playground equipment on a warm September day, or perhaps, mysteriously disappearing vegetables, teeth inexplicably falling from the mouth of an eight-year-old girl who was cruel to your daughter...Her teeth were repaired, by the way. And her memory erased. That's why Mrs. Davis never took you up on your generous offer of free dentistry."

Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes.

"I'm not weird, then? I'm not crazy?" she asked desperately.

"No," Professor McGonagall replied. "You're quite sane, dear girl."

Hermione looked to her mother who seemed on the brink of tears. Her father, however, did not look convinced.

"Prove it," he demanded, a stern look on his face. "And you had better be right because we've had quite enough pranks for a lifetime."

The glowering look the older woman cast his way made him shrink back slightly. Nevertheless, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a thin, wooden stick, crafted and sanded into a well-fashioned wand. She flicked it once at a coaster on the coffee table before them. The coaster slid to the edge of the table, lifted onto its side, spun on its corner, and then turned into a lace doily.  
The Grangers stared.

"There is magic in this world, Mr. Granger," the old woman said softly. "And your daughter is a part of it."

Celia was crying. Ambrose placed an arm over her shoulder, gripping her hand with his other, his eyes cast to the floor.

Hermione spoke up. "So...so all those times, all those times everyone thought I was seeing things, or thought I had done something that I really hadn't--"

"It was your magical prowess getting the best of you when you were emotionally strained," the woman replied. "But at Hogwarts, we will teach you not only how to use magic, but how to control it. After you begin training there, you will be expected not to use magic at home, for instance. And you should have enough control that these incidents should occur very, very rarely, if at all."

Hermione peered down at the letter in her hand. Had all of these things not happened to her, had she not spent her entire life wondering what was wrong, why she was the cause of these things, Hermione would not have believed a word of it. She and her family had been so inconvenienced by these 'magical' outbursts that she could not help but believe what this woman was telling her. If all these things she had done in the past were true, then what was happening now, in this room, must also be true. It was that simple.

"I really am a witch, aren't I?"

"Yes, but it is up to your parents whether or not you attend our school to develop these skills." At that, the woman turned to Hermione's parents. "It is where she belongs," she pointed out.

Celia looked up sharply, her eyes puffy and red. "Yes, yes, absolutely yes..."

Ambrose glanced up as well. He seemed more reluctant, but Hermione gave him her most sincere pleading look.

"Dad...I'll finally be normal," she said with surprising calm. "Please."  
With a sigh and a pause, he nodded as well.

"She can go. We'll let her go."He rubbed his face with his hand as he always did when he was thinking hard.

An enormous sigh of relief escaped from Hermione and she set about asking the burning questions.

"How did I become a witch? Mum and Dad aren't..." She paused, then looked to them, "Are they?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head slowly. "No, no, they are not like you, Hermione. They are called 'Muggles' in our world, but it is not unheard of for a Muggle family to have a magical child. There will be children at Hogwarts who were raised by long lines of witches and wizards, but there will also be children like you who were raised in the other part of society. And there is nothing wrong with that."

Hermione nodded in understanding. Professor McGonagall stayed for awhile longer, explaining to them the rest of the contents of the letter, where to get the school supplies, how to get on the train once September rolled around among other things. The ideas rushed through Hermione's head, making her dizzy with information. By one o' clock, Professor McGonagall was standing, getting ready to leave.

Hermione stood back as her parents bid farewell to this near-stranger. A few haunting thoughts had resurfaced and she wanted desperately to clear them, once and for all.

"Can I talk to you, alone, quickly?" Hermione asked fervently as she approached the woman by the front door.

"Yes, but quickly. I have several other families to attend to today. Let's step outside." She opened the front door then turned and said to the Grangers,

"She'll be right back in."

As the door shut behind them, the woman turned her blue eyes to Hermione, bending slightly so they were level with each other.

"What can I answer for you?"

Hermione could not make eye contact as she said softly, "A few years ago, my mum was going to have a baby. But my sister was stillborn...I wondered if--if all those strange things that had happened to me could have--might have--" Her words lost themselves, but Professor McGonagall seemed to understand.

The woman let out a little sigh, pressing her thin lips together. "Miss Granger, I assure you your magical skills had no part in her death. I promise it. "

And two years of burden lifted from her shoulders as the woman walked away into the afternoon, disappearing around the corner with what looked like the flick of a tail. The closure and relief felt like warm sunshine washing over her skin. The smell of freshly mown grass wafted back to her from the yard, engraining itself in her memory as part of the best day of her life...


	8. Chapter 8

August 7, 1991

Hermione looked up at a shabby looking little pub, a creaky wooden sign labeling it as the Leaky Cauldron quite still on that hot summer day. Her parents were staring quite in the wrong direction, puzzled, almost angry looks on their faces.

"It's not here," her mother said bitterly. "It's not here...ooh, if I ever see that woman again, I--"

"It's right here, Mum," Hermione said plainly, pointing at it, her eyebrows raised.

The Grangers looked at their daughter, but were quick to wipe away their looks of incredulity. Hermione realized then that her parents could not see what she saw.

"It must be because you're...Muggles," she said, half to herself. The word felt foreign to her, as if she were using a word she knew only half the meaning of.

She grabbed one of her parents' hands with each of her own and gently led them to the door. Her parents looked apprehensively around the little pub once they'd entered. They appeared quite stunned, as if they'd just walked through a brick wall. The small family looked around at the various people inside the dark, untidy place. The old, wizened bartender looked up from the glass he was cleaning.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Um...yes," Hermione replied shakily. "C-Can you please tell us how to get to Diagon Alley?"

The old man froze momentarily before setting down the mug. He barked at another man to watch counter before he jerked his head toward a back door. With a deep tentative breath, Hermione followed, gently leading her parents behind her.

They stepped into a small walled square. A few rusty trashcans sat in the corner and weeds sprung up from the cracks in the pavement.

"Muggle-born, are you?" the bartender asked. "Names Tom. This is the only time I'll show you, so pay attention." He pulled out a wand from his back pocket and staggered over to the far brick wall.

"Three up, two across," he said clearly, tapping a single brick three times.

Hermione tucked away the scene for future use, but almost lost her thoughts as the brick he tapped began to writhe and squirm in place. A small hole appeared and it grew wider and wider. Hermione's jaw dropped in amazement as the small hole opened into a large, wide archway.

"Oh my word," her mother said quietly as they entered the alleyway brimming with euphoric chaos.

Hermione turned to talk to Tom, but he was already stalking off back into the pub. Her parents motioned for her to enter the road, but she needed little encouragement. She ran from window to window, looking with sheer excitement at all the objects inside them, objects not even her books had imagined for her. Hermione peered into a window of an Apothecary, a slab of meat on display, the little card reading "Dragon Liver, 17 Sickles per oz."

A low, soft, hooting bubbled from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium: Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. A hoard of children was pressed against the window of what looked like a broom shop, ooh-ing and aah-ing over whatever was in the window. She and her parents passed shop upon shop, barrels full of bat spleens and eels' eyes, potion bottles glinting in the light, stacks and stacks of cauldrons in all shapes and sizes, strange silver instruments amidst golden telescopes, and then Hermione saw it.

A dusty little shop sat squished between two others, its name written in gold leaf on faded and peeling purple paint, practically beckoning to Hermione. The writing read Flourish and Blotts, but Hermione had only to catch sight of the window display before she knew. A bookshop...

She pressed her nose to the window, excitement revving within her as she gazed at the glossy covers, the stacks of fresh parchment, the shining quills.

"Hermione, d-do you think that's the bank?" her mother stammered, setting a hand on her shoulder.

The girl looked up at the big, snowy white building towering over all the others. It had thick, gleaming bronze doors, guarded by a small, squat little...Hermione was not sure what it was. It looked like the elves she'd read about in fairy tales, but yet seemed much too grumpy. It was wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, standing guard at the door, bowing to Hermione and her family as they entered the doors. He had a tawny, cunning face, a pointed goatee and very long fingers and feet.

Hermione now faced a pair of silver doors, the following words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
Of what awaits the sin of greed,  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn.  
So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there.

A shudder ran through Hermione. The magic she'd managed as a small child had frightened her enough. She dared not think of what lay in the cellars of a wizard-run bank. Another pair of the strange creatures bowed them through to a vast marble hall. About a hundred more of them were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious gems through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more of these creatures were showing people in and out of these.

Hermione hung back by her parents, suddenly nervous, as they approached the counter.

"Morning," said Hermione's father to a free creature, almost choking on the word. "W-We need to exchange some M-Muggle money please."

It peered over the edge of the counter, black beady eyes staring into Mr. Granger's, curling its long fingers on the edge of the counter.

"Five pounds to a gold Galleon, seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle."

Nervously, her parents set a stack of bills and a few coins on the table. Hermione watched as the exchange was counted out, keeping a wary eye on the amounts. For some reason she did not trust this...whatever it was. The eyes worried her.

"There you are," he said in a gravelly voice, pushing the mound of coins toward them. Hermione took it, counted it out again into her new handbag, then said,

"We're short three Sickles." Her parents stared at her, as if she were asking to have herself killed.

He gazed down at her, eyes narrowed, before gesturing for the bag. He counted out the coins again. "Very well."

They turned and left Gringotts bank as soon as possible, her parents still cowering slightly in the mass of complete strangers in a stranger world.

Hermione had other plans, however. She took her jingling bag of coins and pulled her school list from within. She'd looked over it a dozen times already, the paper worn thin in places from handling.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM  
First-year students will require:  
Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)  
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

  
COURSE BOOKS  
All students should have a copy of each of the following:  
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk  
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot  
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch  
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore  
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander  
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

  
OTHER EQUIPMENT  
1 wand  
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set brass scales  
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS  
ARE NOT ALLLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

And so Hermione began. Flourish and Blotts took up nearly half their time spent in London that day as Hermione piled the required reading into a cart, but stopped repeatedly to read the contents of other various novels. Somehow these extras slipped their way in; it was only under her parents' encouragement that she finished up in that store, clinging tightly to her books as they left. She dumped them into the cauldron she purchased soon after, along with a stack of fresh parchment and several quills. She went into a shop called Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and had her robes fitted. She bought a year's worth of potions ingredients at the Apothecary and spent another good chunk of time looking around at all its strange, repulsive ingredients. They even stopped at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, happy to find that there were minimal magical ingredients in wizard ice cream.

She was simply ecstatic with all the new information, this wild new world. Even her parents' worried looks soon faded into smiles as they too looked in at the oddities in every window and listened to the conversations on the street. Hermione learned the creatures at the bank were goblins, as shouted by a young boy tugging on his mother's hand.

"All I have left is my wand," Hermione said quietly between ice-cream licks, holding the tenderized piece of paper out for her parents to see.

"That lady said to go to Ollivanders for that," Celia said, gesturing down the street at a narrow, shabby little shop. They headed off as their desserts were finished, passing the peeling gold lettering that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. and the single wand displayed on a purple cushion in the window.

A tinkling bell signaled their arrival. It was quite tiny, shelves upon shelves of small boxes reaching to the ceiling. The scene exhilarated Hermione, as if she had just walked into a library. It felt as if the air was charged with static, humming with magic.

"Good afternoon," came a soft voice. The Grangers jumped, Celia placing a hand to her heart.

An old man stood there, wide pale eyes singularly shining orbs in the obscurity of the shop.

"Hello," Hermione replied, trying to sound confident.

"And what is your name, hmm?" he asked, approaching.

"Hermione Granger."

He nodded, glancing at her parents. "Related to Mr. Horace Granger, from the Ministry? Shame what happened with that Snargaluff plant."

Hermione shook her head, wondering what on earth a Snargaluff was. "I don't believe so."

"Oh, perhaps Ms. Suzanne Granger from St. Mungo's then? Lovely nurse, wonderful bedside manner."

Once again Hermione replied with a shake of her head. "I-I'm not related to any witches or wizards that I know of, Mr. Ollivander."

He stared at her with his wide eyes. "Ah, interesting. Well, this must be very exciting for you." Before she could respond, he continued, "Let's get to work finding you that wand. Which is your wand-arm?"

Hermione held out her right arm, assuming that's what the man meant. He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket, and began measuring Hermione in all directions: shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around her head.

"Let me tell you a little about wands Miss Granger," he said as he measured before beginning his recitation. "Each Ollivander wand has a core of a very powerful magical substance--either a unicorn hair, phoenix tail feather, or dragon heartstring. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course you will never get such good results with another witch's wand. The wand chooses the wizard--or witch."

Hermione jumped with surprise when the tape measure dropped to the floor with a snap of Mr. Ollivander's fingers. He was climbing on a ladder, peering through boxes.

"Right...we'll start with this one. Eleven inches, willow, unicorn hair. Try." He held out the thin, pale wand and Hermione lifted it. At first she thought it had jumped in her hand, but it was just the old man snatching it back from her.

"No good, no good at all...Yew and dragon heart string, ten inches, inflexible. Give that a go."

She took it from him and then brought it swishing down to the floorboards. Nothing happened.

The man pursed his lips. "Not that either..."

He walked deep into the cavity of the shop until Hermione lost sight of him. After a few minutes he emerged.

"I think this will do it," he said with a hint of pride. "Twelve inches exactly, vine wood, quite supple, dragon heartstring and particularly good for transfiguration."

Hermione took it nimbly from his outstretched hand and felt a sudden warmth within her fingers. With a flick of her wrist, a small jet of water shot from the piece of wood, causing her parents to jump.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Mr. Ollivander shouted, as if celebrating. Hermione couldn't help but beam. "That's a wonderful wand, quite powerful. Fit for a logical mind and a strong heart. I'd put my money you'll be in Ravenclaw," he wheezed, quite pleased with himself. Hermione and her parents bustled forward to pay for the wand, but before they left, Mr. Ollivander held out a hand to Hermione.

"Miss Granger, Muggle-born or not, that is the wand of a powerful witch. Put it to good use." He smiled at her, gripping her fingers tightly. She grinned back at him.

And thus did her day conclude. A smile on her face, a stack of books eager to be read, and the wand of a 'powerful witch' tucked safely away, waiting to be 'put to good use'.


	9. Chapter 9

September 1, 1991

There were several strong motivating factors behind Hermione's decision to read all of her textbooks before school even started. For one, everyone's concern with her being Muggle-born had instilled a small, pesky worry within her. Professor McGonagall said it hadn't mattered, but felt the need to point that out. The goblin had tried to take advantage of their deficient knowledge of wizarding currency. Mr. Ollivander seemed surprised to find her possessing a wand meant for more 'logical' or more 'powerful' witches. And so, assuming she was going to have to prove herself just as capable as those reared by magical folk, she read her textbooks voraciously.

But it wasn't difficult. The text she read was filled with what was considered fantasy in all her other books. She felt as if she had been missing out her entire life on this magical world of which she was a part. The information soaked into her every pore and she would expunge the new facts to her parents at the kitchen table every breakfast and dinner. Sometimes they wore bemused expressions, sometimes ones of alarm. Hermione didn't care. She relished this vast new reservoir of knowledge from which to drink.

What she liked even more, however, was the prospect of meeting children with whom she had something in common. She wanted to meet boys and girls who had gone through the same befuddling experiences as children. She wanted to meet children who would not think her strange for accidentally turning the monkey bars to ice, perhaps even think it 'cool'. But at the same time, the idea that many of them came from wizarding families nagged her, like a dull ringing in her ears. She read the stacks of books to prove she was just as familiar with everything magical, but would it be enough?

All these anxieties she had tried to remedy poured back into her like caustic bile as she stared at the crimson red train before her. Its billowing steam seemed quite menacing, like smoke from the burning gates of hell. The bustling students all around were quite intimidating, their laughs piercing the air like gunshots. But she was determined to make friends, sure it would be quite simple now that she no longer had to worry about the odd inexplicable catastrophe casting embarrassment over her for eternity. She turned to look up at her parents behind her, doing her best to be brave.

"We'll write," her mother said softly, putting her hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"We'll send your favorite snacks. I think we have the owl business under control." She winked with a bright smile.

"Hermione, dear," her father said through a sigh, bending down to look her in the eye. He took her hand in his, his soft cool hands stroking hers with tenderness. The man delivered his words with great emphasis, doing his best to get the very important point across. "We're very proud of you. We are _so_ proud of you. You're an amazing girl. Have confidence in that and you'll make friends in no time. This is where you belong."

Teary-eyed through her beaming smile, Hermione threw her arms around her father's neck and squeezed tightly.

"I love you," she murmured into his shoulder.

"We love you too," Celia replied, bending down for her turn in the hug. "We'll see you at Christmas."

Hermione gave them each a peck on the cheek and finally turned to the train, trunk in hand. Once inside, she found it quite difficult to navigate due to the large crowds of students running up and down the corridors. Trying to smile and use her manners despite the frightened butterflies zooming in her stomach, she forced her way into one of the few empty compartments left. Hermione put her trunk on a rack above her head, but not before removing her wand, her robes, and the spell book she'd been dying to use. She changed into her robes eagerly as the train began to chug along, trying not to miss her final goodbye. Hopping to get her shoe on, she managed to reach the window and wave enthusiastically at her parents, smiling as broadly as she could. Their faces grew smaller and smaller as the train gained speed. In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

As soon as she'd changed, she began practicing from the spell book. The wand within her hand felt as natural as holding a pencil, as second-nature as turning the pages of a book. Much to her excitement, she managed to get her pile of Muggle clothes to levitate before there was a knock at the door to her compartment. A woman pushing a cart of sweets was there, but Hermione denied wanting any. Warnings from her parents about the dangers of cavities and gum disease were best heeded, even if they weren't there to enforce the no-sweets rule.

The train carried on, Hermione hearing nothing but the sound of her own voice repeating the charms over and over and the muffled chatter from compartments around her. It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling, so she decided to close the book. With a tentative hand, she reached out and took a deep breath before opening the door. The hallways had thinned quite a bit and Hermione walked slowly down them, peering in windows for a friendly face.  
She looked in the slightly opened door of one and saw three girls talking amidst fits of giggles. With another calming breath and a straightening of her shoulders (to look confident, of course), Hermione knocked.

The girls looked up. One of them came to the door and opened it the rest of the way. She had long dark hair and delicate features.

"Hi," the girl said politely. "Can I help you?"

"I was just seeing if I could meet a few fellow first years," Hermione said quickly, feeling as if she had at least convincingly faked some confidence with her flippant tone. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"Parvati Patil," the girl before her replied. "This is my sister, Padma." She nodded over at the other girl, whose only differing characteristic was a long braid down her back.

"And I'm Lavender Brown," said the third girl in the room. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and reminded Hermione vaguely of Shannon Davis, though she tried to convince herself to think otherwise. Instead she tried smiling.

"Well, I was also wondering if you three knew anything more about the four Hogwarts houses, other than what was in our history books. There's not a single witch or wizard in my family so far as I can tell, so I've had to go off of the books I memorized this summer. Do you think you know which you'll be in?" Hermione pressed, hoping that was enough information to start a conversation.

"I hope I'm in Gryffindor," said Lavender, who turned her response to Parvati.

"You know, the people there are really brave and cool and stuff. My mum was in Ravenclaw but my dad was in Gryffindor when he went. My great-granddad was in Gryffindor with Dumbledore, you know. I don't want to be in nerdy Ravenclaw though. It must be so boring studying all the time."  
Hermione tried not to feel stung.

"I suppose Hufflepuff wouldn't be too bad," Lavender continued, lying down on a pile of sweets.

"Yes it would," Parvati sniggered, taking a seat by her sister. "It's a house for _nice_ people. You know, people who haven't got any other talents."

"Just hope you're not in Slytherin," Padma piped up. "Our parents said they're just power-hungry morons. _You'll_ be in Slytherin, I expect," she said, directing her sarcasm at her twin with a laugh. "The way you talk about Hufflepuffs. You shouldn't be mean to nice people. And Lavender, you'll be in Slytherin too. Ravenclaw isn't a bunch of nerds. A lot of the people in that house don't even have to study half the time since they're so clever."

The three of them began chattering and giggling and then somehow a bag of candies split open and the three girls burst into hysterics. The chaos unnerved Hermione, so she slid the door to its original position and headed back to her compartment.

So. The four houses. Being in Gryffindor was the obvious first choice. The other three didn't seem nearly as commendable, but better to be a nerd than being assumed a talentless doormat or a tyrannical idiot. She simply had to be in Gryffindor. It would be a shoe-in for making friends.

A knock at the compartment door interrupted her thoughts. Hermione looked up to see a round-faced boy standing sullenly in the doorway.

"Excuse me...h-have you seen a toad anywhere?"

Hermione felt a sudden searing panic at having to converse with others yet again. She measured her words carefully.

"No, no I haven't. I'm sorry."

"Oh...alright." He made to close the door, looking quite forlorn, but Hermione let out a sudden cry.

"Wait! I-I'll help you look for him. I'm sure we can find him. What's his name?"

"Trevor," the boy said quietly.

"Trevor," Hermione repeated under her breath, exiting the compartment and following the boy up the aisle. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said matter-of-factly, trying to bring her confident voice back.

"N-Neville Longbottom," the boy replied.

"Pleased to meet you Neville," she said without eye contact, as they approached a compartment. Hermione knocked and opened the door without invitation. A boy with sandy colored hair was sitting in the compartment along with a very tall boy with a dark complexion.

"Has anyone here seen a toad?" Hermione asked plainly.

The boys shook their heads and Hermione closed the door, moving on to the next and the next.

"We'll never find him," Neville moaned. "I can't imagine where he could have gone..."

"Don't worry," Hermione assured him. "There are still lots of compartments to go."

She didn't even bother knocking on the next one. Sitting in this compartment was a gangly red-haired boy, a rat in his lap and a wand in his hand. On the other side sat a scrawny bespectacled boy with messy black hair. Hermione's gaze drew immediately to the wand.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said the red-headed boy.

She didn't pay attention. "Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it then."

Eager to see how she measured up, Hermione sat down. The boy looked shocked at her forward friendliness, but it was the fastest way to an introduction she was sure.

"Er--all right."

He cleared his throat.

_"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,  
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."_

He waved his wand but nothing happened. The rat remained asleep in his lap. Hermione did her best not to laugh, though she couldn't resist the urge to speak.

"Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard--I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough--I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She could feel embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. She'd spoken much too quickly. It had not been coherent whatsoever. She had simply stumbled through her thoughts, trying to reach out to them. Perhaps _too_ forward.

"I'm Ron Weasley," the red-haired boy muttered.

"Harry Potter," the other said, speaking for the first time.

"Are you really?" said Hermione, suddenly trying to remember everything she could. It would surely impress him. "I know all about you, of course--I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."

"Am I?" He seemed nonplussed.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," Hermione replied feeling rather embarrassed again though quickly deciding to cover it up with a change of subject. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad...Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

She hurried to leave, trying to hide her face as she felt herself blush with the efforts of conversation; Neville followed morosely behind.

And we all know the rest.  
Or do we?


End file.
